Chapter 8
Grace
The day devolves into a series of disconnected breaths and depthless grief.
The older officer takes me to the station; Mother, he says, will follow with his partner.
I’m escorted to a quiet room off the main office.
The cop gets me a cup of weak coffee and asks if I need some medication.
He indicates my purse, which is slung across the back of my chair.
I stare at it. I can’t remember if I went through the motions of grabbing my purse before leaving the house. Or did he grab it for me?
“I need Nate,” I whisper, unsure of why I keep asserting the same thing.
“He’ll be here soon. Did you want to tell me more about your mother, Grace? You mentioned some… disturbing details earlier.”
I stare at the grey-haired man whose name I can’t remember. My mind is a sieve. Everything I said about Mother has trickled out. Obviously, it was alarming enough for the police to separate us, but all I can think of right now is Nick’s face—and Nate’s.
I’ll never see Nick again unless—
“Will I be able to see Nick soon?”
“Not a good idea, Grace.” He looks down at his folded hands. They’re big and square. Honest hands. “The coroner has strongly advised against viewing.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, I have not.”
“Where is Mother?”
“She’s with my partner. She’ll also be answering some questions about her relationship with the deceased and yourself, respectively.”
“Because of what I said earlier?”
“That’s right. We take statements like that seriously, even if they’re made in the middle of distress. I’m sure you understand.”
“I just need Nate.”
His eyes sharpen, and I can tell he’s not sure what to make of my continual mentions of my dead husband’s brother. “You two are close, eh?”
“I haven’t seen him in five years,” I admit, “but he and Nick are in business together.” My heart clenches hard as I try to explain my emotions to myself as much as to the officer. “Nick thought Nate could fix anything, so maybe…”
Maybe he can fix me, I don’t say. Maybe he can help me manage Mother when she gets past the system here.
I think about what Mother must be going through.
She had plenty of experience answering tough questions while I was growing up.
She managed social workers, doctors, psychologists, and teachers with the same quiet smile, the same perfect composure—like she was doing them a favour by allowing their prying.
My stomach twists, wringing itself out like a dishrag. Life has changed, but the worn, familiar feelings seize me. Suddenly, all I want is to see her.
“Is she still asking for me?” I look down at my own hands, white-knuckled in my lap.
“I believe so,” he answers, raising his brows, “but you seemed to think you wouldn’t be safe with her earlier. You said she might kill you, and you implied that Nick’s will and wishes might be some sort of motivation.”
I can’t look at him now. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You were deeply disturbed, Grace, and with good reason. My partner spoke to Nate Hadley earlier, and we all agree there’s grounds to keep you and your mother separate for now.”
“I’m going to have to deal with her after all of this, no matter what you do today.”
“Maybe so, but let’s see if we can’t come up with some solutions together, eh?”
I nod as if this isn’t a terrifying prospect, and finally meet his eyes.
“What made you believe she might kill you, Grace?”
“I don’t know, I just—she’s cared for me forever, but sometimes I worry she doesn’t actually want what’s best.”
“I saw how she was about the chain on the door. That was a strong reaction, unless there’s a reason putting the chain on the door might compromise your health?”
He frames it as a question, one idea leading into the next. I try to keep up despite the way dread has started to settle into my gut.
“She worries I might be in too much pain to answer the door myself, so she’s never let me lock it with the chain.”
“Let you?” he asks, zeroing in on the words. “It’s your husband’s house, to my understanding,” he checks his notes again, “owned outright by Mr Hadley and yourself, as his wife of ten years. How would your mother enforce her preferences for your security in your own home?”
I give a half-shrug, wanting to exit the conversation. “She’s not the best with boundaries.”
“That much is becoming clear.” He studies me for another long minute. “Would you mind telling me more about your pain condition?”
This is safer territory, and it’s easy to launch into an explanation.
“The doctors call it functional somatic disorder, or sometimes conversion disorder. Basically, we don’t know what’s wrong, but I have a lot of stomach, muscle, bone, and joint pain as well as symptoms of chronic fatigue and some other stuff. ”
“I see.” He makes a few notes. “I have a cousin with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It’s serious, especially when it’s not treated properly. Now, putting everything together, where does your mother come into it?”
“Well,” I hesitate, “she’s been my caregiver in a lot of ways.
Nick is, too—rather, he was.” The back of my throat tightens, tears threatening.
“Mother… sometimes I think she likes how sick I get. It’s not a helpful thought, but it sneaks in.
That might be why I said what I said before.
It’s really just nonsense. Old worries that pop into my head every now and then. ”
“Such as when you’re in distress?”
Relief makes me smile. The officer, whatever his name is, gets it.
“Exactly.”
He holds my gaze, not returning my smile. I get the sense that I’ve somehow confirmed the wrong thing.
“It’s my experience, Grace,” he continues, “that victims often feel the need to protect their abusers. It’s completely natural.
I’ve further noticed that those same people can sometimes become…
shall we say, excessively candid, when they’re in crisis.
So I’ll go ahead and tell you that I don’t think you were just worrying aloud when you said your mother might end your life in the future.
I think you were being as honest as someone in an ongoing abuse situation can be.
Now,” he holds up a hand to forestall my answer, “you do not have to confirm nor deny anything. All I want you to take away from this conversation is this: Number one, I believe you one hundred percent. I’ll say it again.
You told me that your mother is a danger to you, Grace, and I believe you.
Number two, I will stand up for you against her, should you need me to.
And number three, you are not obligated to do anything, though I will offer you some advice. Can I do that, Grace?”
I sit, processing what he said.
Victims… Abusers…
He dropped the words almost casually, but the dread in my gut has subsided a little, and my mind finally seems capable of parsing what the officer is saying.
“I’ve forgotten your name,” I whisper, shame heating my cheeks.
“Understandable. I’m Tim.” He slides a card across the table. “You keep that so you remember. It’s got my direct line.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “What’s your advice?”
“It might be hard to hear, but I’m going to advise that you not return home until you’ve had the locks changed.
Even then, I’d reconsider living next door to your mother for the time being.
Distance can do a lot for someone in your situation, Grace, and you’ve already made a good start by accepting my help today. ”
I blink, forcing the tears down again. Constable Tim slides a box of tissues across the table without a word. I dab my eyes, trying to collect myself while he makes some more notes. My entire body resists the idea of never going home.
Home.
Nick will never come home. And Mother might force her way in and then take me back—right next door—to end what she started. It feels like the worst sort of destiny to go back to her house, maybe forever.
An image comes unbidden: a hot summer day in the park. A grey-eyed boy who chased me down the slide and offered me an escape. I’ve drawn comfort from the memory for so long that it feels worn, like a photograph I’ve creased without meaning to.
“Nate…” I say, my voice quietly pained. I clear my throat and start again. “Nate might be able to take me away from her properly.”
“That, we agree on,” Tim answers, regarding me frankly. “As for your mother’s potential designs on Nick’s will, I believe Mr Hadley is bringing the latest version with him.”
His eyes shift to the window overlooking the main office. “Speak of the devil, that’s him now, I reckon.”
I follow his line of sight and catch my breath. Nate strides through the crowded office, stepping neatly between desks, his eyes already on me. From a distance, he looks just like Nick, though I’ve never seen an expression of such naked determination on my husband’s face.
“Did you mention they were identical twins?” Tim asks.
He moves forward even as I abandon my seat to step deeper into the room.
Tim opens the door with one hand and reaches for Nate with the other.
They exchange greetings, and I realise I’m half-hiding behind the table, staring as the two men talk like old friends, condolences on the one side, earnest thanks on the other.
Nate hands the policeman a heavy manila folder, but I can’t hear what they’re saying: static has filled me from core to crown, and my head is full of useless words.
He looks just like Nick. Just like Nick. Just like—
The thought is as absurd as it is obvious. Of course Nate looks like Nick. But knowing it and seeing it are two different things.
I realise that my feelings are finally pouring down my face.
Fuck.
I force myself to listen as Nate tells Constable Tim something about giving us a moment. The big man leaves. I’m instinctively shrinking away, trying to close in on myself, crying like a child. Nate steps around the table, then his arms close around me, warm and solid.
“I’m here, little heart.” His voice is a rumble I can both feel and hear. “I’ve got you.”
I press my wet face against his neck, accidentally breathing in his unfamiliar scent.
Clean clothes. Warm skin. And a hint of something earthy.
Vetiver? I feel how he takes most of my weight, his body half-over mine, his arms supporting me effortlessly.
I’m breathless, my mind filling with a warmer, softer version of the static.
His warmth is infrared. Comforting, maybe even healing.
Nate’s voice comes again, a rougher version of Nick’s. “Time to get out of here, Grace.”
His hand moves to the nape of my neck, pulling me back to look into his eyes.
I catch my breath. This close, the resemblance is gone.
Nate’s eyes are flat where Nick’s used to shimmer, and they’re framed by lines—stress, anger, control, a piece of my mind whispers.
And there is no mistaking this embrace for anything Nick ever gave me.
I’m held tight, my thighs, belly, and chest pressed against Nate as his eyes dart over my face.
He’s making a similar assessment, cataloguing how I’ve changed these last five years.
I’m gaunt, that’s for sure, with hollows under my cheeks and worry lines at the corners of my eyes.
Prematurely aging, and somehow I feel like I should apologise for it.
“We’ve got one stop to make,” he continues, “then we’ll fly to Auckland. Where’s your mother?”
My voice comes out hoarse. “Answering questions. I—I said something stupid, Nate.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He pulls me up, then he grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the table and dabs at my face.
I stare, trying to ignore the wrongness of his appearance compared to Nick’s; somehow, his lack of resemblance up close feels like a loss.
I dismiss the thought, trying to return to some form of sense, to my body’s response to my entire world coming apart.
I find myself thinking of what Tim told me about leaving my house.
“She’s not going to let me go,” I say.
Strong hands come down on my shoulders. I look up into Nate’s eyes, shivering at the way they seem to demand something from me, even as he’s clearly trying to comfort me.
“Your mother is done with you, Grace, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
I wipe a tear from my cheek. “She’ll never be done with me.”
He shakes me, just a little. I feel as if I’m about to fall from a cliff.
“No, I will never be done with you. But believe me when I say that Constance Reid is fucking done.”
Nate snatches my purse and leads me out. We pass Constable Tim, who looks between the two of us, his eyes alight with something similar to the concern he showed before.
“Where are we going?” I ask, scanning the crowded office for Mother, desperate to see her one last time before—
“Home, little heart,” comes the answer. “I’m taking you home.”